


The Other Friend

by AlastorsBambi (AkaraSoma), Spazzytwitch91



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series), Helluva Boss (Web Series)
Genre: Abuse, Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Deal with a Devil, Domestic Fluff, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Everything Hurts, Explicit Sexual Content, Feral Behavior, Friendship, Fucked Up, Grimdark, Hell, Loyalty, Mental Health Issues, Original Character(s), Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Possessive Behavior, Protectiveness, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Self-Destruction, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Self-Sacrifice, Serial Killers, Serious Injuries, Suicide Attempt, Swearing, Torture, Trauma, Triggers, Victim Blaming, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:02:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22371496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkaraSoma/pseuds/AlastorsBambi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spazzytwitch91/pseuds/Spazzytwitch91
Summary: Sam doesn't remember much of her life before she was brought to the brothel durring her 16th birthday. Truth be told, there wasn't really one.When freedom finally came 3 years later, there were no pesky prior attachments to stop her from being forcefully dragged into a new family, even if that family would drag her down to hell with them.
Relationships: Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 10





	1. Before we begin

A note before we begin:

This Follows "Friend on the other side" by Alastor's Bambi. I highly recommend going and reading her stuff before and while reading this. 

[Friend on the Other Side](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21401818/)

This is my oc, Sam's perspective. Bambi was just awesome enough to give me a world to develop her in.

There may be some slight differences from her fic but for the most part everything in the majority of the chapters have been looked over by Bambi and approved for how she sees things going in her version of things, including personality differences.

I suck at keeping people in cannon. I am aware. I don't need it pointed out to me.

There are Major trigger elements throughout this fic I have done my best to tag everything that I could think of. Does it seem excessive? Probably, pay attention none the less.

Sam is a depressed character, because I am a depressed person working through some things. She's got trauma before these event start and not much for support and things don't really get better. It is Hell after all

I will try to keep up with triggers as I think of them, but be warned, I will miss some.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said in the note at the beginning, Pay attention to the tags.  
> Trigger warning: suicidal thoughts and a suicide attemp

Sam stared up at the ceiling of her prison, trying her hardest to not think about the pain. It was hard to determine which pain was worse. The hunger pains from a week of starvation or the physical pain from the beating from twenty minutes ago. Part of her almost wished her next client would just hurry up and get here just for a distraction. Fuck, at this point, she wouldn’t even mind being eaten alive by someone, preferably not anyone who visited this house. Was there a dating site for cannibals and vorarephilias? There should be. Being eaten couldn’t hurt any worse than anything else done to her in this figurative ,and probably literal, hellhole.

She closed her eyes and rolled over onto her side to curl into a ball, almost vomiting from the pain. 

After another minute of just lying there, she managed to get to her feet and drag herself into the sparse bathroom. She needed to get herself cleaned up. It really wouldn’t bode well for her if the next John got here to see her battered, bloodied, and covered in another man’s jizz. The less said about the last time she had let that happen, the better. 

The cold shower helped wake her up some, easing some of the various swellings. It was the closest she would get to ice without asking for some. Sure, she could ask and the guards would give her some. Just like all she had to do was get on her knees, apologize, ask for some food, and they would start feeding her again. But she would be damned if she gave the pimps who ran the place that satisfaction. One would think after so much time, everyone would know how this game would play out and that they would try something else. 

She’d misbehave, they’d give her the cruelest clients with the most fucked up fantasies, allowing all but those that would permanently scare, maim, or kill her. Sam would misbehave even more, they’d starve her, she wouldn’t apologize or fall in line. She’d eventually get to the point where she’d pass out, the Johns would complain, the pimps would start feeding her again, and then it would all start over again. 

If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, then those in charge were certifiable. Not that they weren’t already certifiable. You had to be to kidnap people, force them to have sex for money, and call it protection. 

Sure, there was no rent, or utilities, the Johns were all clean of any STDs, and if, somehow, something snuck through, then the slaves got treatment. There were no drugs allowed, she didn’t “have to worry about a job or school”, there would always be a roof over her head. Most of the other slaves didn’t have to worry about starving either, but that was only because they accepted this gilded cage. They were all such well-behaved little birds who sung and danced when required and as such got all the perks of living in this luxurious, country mansion-house thing. And all that was required was that they spread their legs a couple times a night. In practice, it didn’t sound so bad. In reality, not so much. 

Maybe she was cynical because she was still “fresh”, still the youngest both age wise and tenure wise. A few more years and maybe she really would break. Maybe she would stop fighting, accept her place, and life would “get better”. She wasn’t even sure why she was still fighting against giving up her reality and accepting this new one. No one could ever claim that she wasn’t petty or stubborn. She would refuse to let them see her break. Maybe it was just teenage rebelliousness. 

The fact that it was New-Years day suddenly registered. She would be turning 19 on the 20th.Three years. She’d been in this whorehouse for three years. Her eyes closed, and she tilted her head back letting the water run over her face. She thought back to what little of her past she could remember still, this was the one time of year she allowed herself to do such. Soon, there won't be anything. Every year there was less and less that she could recall. 

Not that there was much of one to remember in the first place. Her old psychologist would probably claim she was intentionally blocking it out as a survival mechanism; the memories were to painful so she compartmentalized and blocked out those feelings. She’d always been good at that. Always been an odd duck. Diagnosed with Antisocial Personality Disorder from a young age. Sam didn’t really have peers or friends to reflect on or miss, or that would miss her. Even as a child, she’d always been more focused on school, studying and excelling to get out of there faster so she could get on with what actually interested her, like music. 

Who had time to socialize when a whole world of music awaited her?

She turned on the hot water so she could start scrubbing, but her train of thought didn’t break from reminiscing about her past.

She couldn’t remember her parents’ faces, or even their voices anymore. All she had left of them were lingering feelings. She loved them, or at least she thought she did. Did she? Well, she tolerated them at least which was more than she could say for most people. She wasn’t sure if it was some misplaced feeling of obligation from them adopting her, or what. They had been very well off, she could remember that much. 

Karen had been a trust fund baby. Any work she did was out of desire and not a necessity. Sam and she had butted heads around Sam turning 10 and announcing that she was her own person and not her mother’s doll, had even gone so far as to run outside in her $300 dress and purposely rolled around in a mud puddle. The rift hadn’t ever really mended. If anything, it only grew bigger when puberty hit. Karen had started making sure that Sam knew she was adopted and had gone out of her way to make sure she knew that her older brother was her favorite, and only, child to love. Sam was just some obligation.

David had come from a military family of some ranking or another. After his own 8 years in the military, he had pursued a career in psychology. He had loved his daughter equally as much as her brother, but Karen had him wrapped around her finger. He had more often than not played the bystander to Karen and Sam’s fights than actually stepping in to stop them or picking a side. He was a bit of a coward.

Sam didn’t think either of them really missed her. Everyone was probably happier now that she was out of the picture. The little demon they had accidently adopted, that had turned out to be a blight on the family name, was gone. The only one in the whole world who probably missed her was her brother. She had adored her brother. 

He had been the thing to ground her when her anger at their parents or the world got to be too much or when she got so over stimulated that she would scream herself hoarse. He was the one who convinced their parents that she wasn’t just lashing out but actually needed help. He drove her to all her appointments, made sure she ate, made sure she took her meds, and talked her down when things just got to be too much. He bought her first piano when he learned she had an unnatural talent for music. He also bought her first violin as well as paid for years of voice lessons out of his own money. 

Caleb had been the only thing Sam for sure knew she loved. He’d been the main source of warmth in her life. He never pressured her to try to be normal, or to act a certain way. more often than not he would help her plot shenanigans against Karen. It was he who usually broke up their fights, who came to her defense when the bitch of a woman claimed she was a corrupting influence. It was he who pushed her to keep following her dreams of attending a school of music and becoming a famous violinist, pianist, or singer. He had been the one to tell their father to pull his head out of his ass, reminded him of the ethics of diagnosing family, and gotten her seen for her issues. Caleb had read bedtime stories to her, cuddled her when she had nightmares, made sure she wasn’t completely touch starved, and that she never went full sociopath. 

The only thing that had stopped her full descent into madness or becoming a serial killer had been his influence and the fact that no one was worth that much of her time or effort. 

One person. One person out of hundreds that had been part of her life before would care if she were to end everything. He’d probably blame himself too. It had been his idea to drive to Boston, making a detour to New York to see the sights, for a few weeks. If not that, it had also been his idea to get her the fake id that claimed she was 18 and not 16 so that she wouldn’t get in any trouble for breaking any curfew laws. He had said that she deserved to celebrate away from Karen’s negativity. 

She’d gotten a full scholarship to Berkley College of Music on her own merits and not mommy’s money, and despite all the constant negativity about what a waste it was; at 16 no less. She was already graduated and just waiting for the new semester to begin. There was no reason she should have to adhere to a city mandated curfew. She had been celebrating with him, congratulations, happy New Year and happy birthday all in one when she’d been taken.

At least she could still remember his voice. She couldn’t remember what he looked like for the life of her, but she’d always had a thing for recalling sounds that mattered to her and his voice definitely mattered. 

She’d already hurt him by going missing for three years. He probably already thought she was dead. So why wasn’t she? She was creative enough, she bet she could figure out a way. She opened her eyes so she could eye the bathroom again. 

The tub. 

She could fill the tub and drown herself. She was weak enough now that it probably wouldn’t take long. The difficult part would be to not panic, to hold herself under. As much as she wanted to die, she was sure bodily instinct would kick in once it felt that lack of oxygen. All it would result in would be a huge mess and another beating. 

She shut the shower off and wrapped herself in the fluffy, purple towel and walked over to the mirror. She wiped the steam away from it so she could see her reflection. Even with the ice shower, she could already see the bruises start to form. She tilted her head to the side to see the finger marks better and poke at the ones on her throat. Shit it was going to take a lot of make-up for this one. God forbid her Johns ever see the work of the previous. No. Part of the fantasy of having their own doll to break was that she was theirs to break and not one they had to share with someone else. They paid a lot of money for that fantasy each week. 

The mirror wouldn’t be bad. It was small, but it wouldn’t take a large piece to accomplish what she needed. Cut in the right area, deep enough, and she could bleed out in seconds. Problem was she wasn’t quite sure where those exact spots were. If she did it wrong, then it could take minutes, or not at all, and a failed attempt that way would again result in a mess and a beating. She should have paid more attention in anatomy. But like most subjects, it hadn’t interested her enough to retain any longer than necessary for getting good grades on her tests. 

Maybe a mixture of the tub and the mirror? Fill the tub then cut in a few places while she was in it. Maybe if she didn’t cut deep enough, she’d still pass out and drown that way?

She ruled out the idea of wrestling with the guards and going for the gun. At least in her current state. She was shy of 19, was 5’4, and only weighed 90 pounds from all the starvations. She wouldn’t stand a chance. And if she pulled the trigger at the wrong angle? She’d be lobotomized and not dead. Though for all intents and purposes, it wouldn’t be a bad secondary option. 

Pity that there wasn’t anything for her to hang herself with. Who ever had made this prison had made sure to try to mitigate any escapes. The one window in the basement had mesh over the glass, was boarded on the outside and had bars over it on the inside. There was nothing for her to hang herself off of. She was surprised she even had a bathtub and not a stand-up shower.

No, the mirror would be her best bet. She peeked her head out the bathroom door and gave the door upstairs a skeptical look before quietly closing it again. She hesitated for a brief moment. What if some one came to check on her? She wished there was a way to lock the door. But she would have to make do. She wrapped a hand in the towel and punched the mirror. Her head tilted again to listen for anyone coming before she punched it a second then a third time. After examining the pieces, she picked one she thought would suffice. She fiddled with it. 

Did she really want to do this? It was such a permanent solution to what would amount to what others would call a temporary problem. Given enough time, she would figure out a way to escape. Maybe if she reverted back to the scared obedient 16-year-old she had been when she was brought here, they would ease up. It would take time, sure, but she could earn their trust, and some small freedoms, back. 

She had been good in the beginning. They had said she was the easiest girl they had taken, much easier than someone they called “Bambi.” Sam had been docile and obedient. The house angel. She’d been cooperative in all the “lessons” the pimps had made her have to be a successful whore. And hey, it was something outside the monotony of her life. What a naive fool she’d been, trying to make the best of a shitty situation. Once the boredom had set in around the 6 month mark, though, things had gone downhill.

As months, then a year passed, she faced the facts; short of death, she was never getting out of here, so what was the point of behaving? Her mother believed her to be a monster; She would show them why.

She had started misbehaving in small ways at first. The mischievousness added to her “child-like” charm. Then escalated it. At one point she had managed to set the kitchen, first-floor bathroom, and her room on fire within a two-week time frame. Then she turned her aggression towards her clients. She had tried to pull a “Bambi” by biting one guys dick off but had been unsuccessful. She had managed to bite a guy’s ear off though, and she’d “accidently” blinded a guy. That one was a fond memory. 

That was when she was moved to the basement, the sex dungeon, and advertised as a doll instead of an angel. The intention had been to scare her with isolation. Remove her from any friendly social contact, leaving her with just the worst of the worst of the clients and maybe she would start behaving again. 

The fuckwits never did understand that she wanted that. She didn’t want to become friends with the other girls or her Johns. She didn’t want to be in a gilded cage. If she was going to be stuck here then she wanted no illusions of “care", “protection”, or whatever other bullshit they tried to sell. 

It had been some jackass, Kevin maybe, or was it Andrew? It had been one of their ideas. Rather than ban all the hardcore sadists from the house, they would give them to her. Surely after a few weeks with the ones who simply had fantasies of objectifying and breaking women, she would start behaving again. 

It hadn’t broken her, she didn’t start behaving. Instead it just fueled the flames of rebellion even more. She would never let anyone have the satisfaction of seeing her shattered. She also suspected that by this point she was addicted to the pain and the chemical rush. Every session, every beating, every aspect of pain just let her know that she was still alive. 

The rush was so much better when she was allowed and encouraged to fight back. They never suspected such a weak and frail thing could cause damage, but she managed to on quite a few occasions. The problem was though, that like any addiction or dependency, it was taking more and more to get her there. She suspected the pimps had caught onto her game after the snuff film incident. 

There had been weeks leading up to it. Martin would come in, try to get it up, beat her around some, a lot, she’d laugh at him and taunt him, he’d beat her worse before ultimately leaving unsatisfied. Until one session she had suggested that if he wanted to torture someone so bad, why not just cut lose and do it? That’s what he was paying a seven-figure check for right? Why not make his own torture porn or snuff film? Granted it had been one of those moments where she had opened her mouth when she should have kept it closed. She never thought he would have actually rolled with it.

She wasn’t sure what changed about her screams enough that the guards had cared to come in and check on her, but she cursed them to this day. They had found him telling her to beg him for her life, and she had. Though, it had thrown everyone off when she had begged him to just hurry up and end it already. May have been her idea, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of hearing her beg for her life on camera.

The extreme ones had been banned ever since. Pity they had chosen then to realize her sense of self-preservation leaned heavily towards “death before submission” or “going out in style but taking you fuckers with me" side and not in the “do what she had to in order to get the pain to stop” side. 

Sam turned the mirror shard over again and again, running her thumb over the smooth surface. If she did this, she was on a one-way train to hell. She really would never see Caleb again. But if Karen’s fanatical belief was true, she was going to hell anyways. She had definitely not waited until marriage to have sex. 

Well, if she was going anyways, she should have a plan. 

She would bide her time in hell until everyone of the fuckers responsible for the last 3 years met her down there. There wasn’t a single entity in hell she wouldn’t make a deal with to see that through. But what would that deal entail? The fingers of the hand not busy with the mirror chard drummed against her knee. She didn’t have ambitions of power or fame or anything else of the sort. Her soul was hers damn it. The pot better be pretty fucking sweet for her to risk it. 

She just wanted to be able to protect herself, get her revenge, and protect those she called her own, if she ever met anyone worthy that is. And she supposed if she made a deal and ended up a slave for all eternity, she should be powerful enough to survive whatever whomever she ended up making the deal with threw at her. The Gods only knew she had a mouth that would end up pissing them off sooner or later and she didn’t want to be squished so easily.

She wished her brother hadn’t had her religious texts confiscated before she could really get a grasp on any particular subject. He didn’t want her to aggravate the “talking to spirits" aspect of her mental illness. She was sociopathic not schizophrenic for the love of…whatever. Wouldn’t help her now and it is not like she was trying to summon anything right here and now. She would just have to wait till she died, figure out whose version of hell was right, pick the biggest fucker she could convince to take her on, and make a deal then. Please, please don’t let it be the Catholics. Don’t let Karen be right about that.

A plan was made, the means were available, she just had to take the final step. She took a deep breath and lifted the shard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this chapter so much. This is the fourth re-write of it. But if I keep working on it, it'll never get posted. So as Peter B Parker says "It's a leap of faith. That's all it is " 
> 
> Time to take the leap.

**Author's Note:**

> If you are reading this anywhere other than AO3, it was stolen and reposted without my permission and I do not want it on that platform.


End file.
